


Don't get caught

by Asauna



Series: Sherlock Drabbles [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Nosy fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 17:00:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asauna/pseuds/Asauna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock ends up rifling through John's personal items whilst waiting for him to return home, learning a little more about the past he keeps locked away in the closet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't get caught

"Bored." He groaned out to no one in particular, frowning to himself as he glanced towards the clock. Three hours. Three hours until John returned home. Three hours until he could tell him about the case he solved today after the murder of four different people, all over town. They didn't have anything in common, besides the fact that they were homosexual. Some bigot thought it would be grand to perform his "God given right to get rid o' the fags". 

John might also be pleased with knowing there was a homophobic killer off of the streets, seeing as how his sister was coming to London tomorrow. Not that he knew that. Mycroft tipped him off before with hearing the news. Of course he kept eyes on her, whether John wanted him to or not. It was his job to watch over those who mattered to his brother and his little friend, as silly as that may sound. Sherlock was interested in meeting Harriet. She would no doubt come stop by. What was she like? Rude, he'd imagine. It must have been why John didn't talk about her. Between her attitude and alcoholism.. 

He stared at the clock, going over the list of possibilities of what the woman would be like. Would they look alike? Look as if they came from separate families? He'd never actually seen a photo of her. Perhaps John had one of her in his room somewhere? He hid things away whether he realised he did or not. And if he was keeping his sister away from most conversation, that meant she was hidden away as well. So, quickly, those long legs pushed him from the couch, over the coffee table and to the stairs that led up to the man’s room. It smelled of John, everywhere, once he hit the second floor. It was tidy though. He peered into the bathroom that was always kept clean and put together, then slipped his way into the bedroom. 

The bed was made, lights off and blinds open. He didn't really have much of anything in here aside from some clothes in the dresser and closet and a few old books he must have thumbed through a dozen times. Classic novels, some medical journals... Things like that. No new furniture, no tele, nothing that would be excessive. Nothing even personal. The walls were barren except for what Mrs. Hudson had put up when making the room initially. And those were boring, meaningless photos. Who cares about a flower in a vase? If anyone else looked into this room, they'd mark the doctor off as dull. But Sherlock knew so much better than that. John was amazing. He was exciting and strong. He was loud, powerful and a wee bit deceiving when he tried hard. But that was a rare occasion. 

Sherlock stepped over to the obvious first place John would toss anything, which was the closet. He tugged the door open and pulled the string upon the semi-walk in, peering inside. Christ, when did he get that many jumpers? How did that appeal? Then again, this was John Watson he was talking about. Protector, fighter, doctor, and unmistakably adorable in his fuzzy, woolen jumpers. Wait- No, he hadn't thought that. Deleted. 

Clearing his throat and shaking his head some to himself, Sherlock knelt down. Shoes, a few shopping bags that were emptied. Why did he keep those? He'd have to talk to John about his signs of future-hoarding. No need to have that clutter in this flat. It was too small for that nonsense. Ah, there it was. A box. Medium-sized, unmarked and closed. Beside it was a long, cylindrical green bag that must've still held his fatigues, his boots resting beside it. He also had his formal uniform hanging up, though Sherlock didn't care too much. He knew about John's military career. It wasn't new information. 

Tugging the box towards him, he peeled the tape back and looked inside. That wasn't what he was expecting. There was nothing but sentiment in. He was half-tempted to toss it back into the closet though he was far too interested. There were trophies, awards, one even in a case. That one was for doing his service. There hadn't been a ceremony, he thought. Just something given to him as a way for the military to say, "Thanks for almost dying for us. Don't come back".   
The other trophies were from his youth, it would seem. Rugby trophies. An old yearbook. There were also what appeared to be family photos still in frames tucked away, and some legal documents in envelopes. Death certificates. And a marriage one. Belonging to John's parents, it would seem. Given the year the death certificates had been signed as it seemed they'd died together, John was only nineteen. 

There were tags in the box. Two sets of them. One belonging to a Watson, James. H. So similar in name. The father must have wanted John to be named James as well, but the mother must have wanted different names. So he gave them the same initials. The other set of tags belonged to someone Sherlock didn't recognize, John having never talked of them. Cooper, Brian M. Perhaps a friend who had fallen in battle, he decided. But why did he have the tags and not the deceased's family? Perhaps Brian didn’t have family? 

Regardless, Sherlock continued to dig through. Photos of John in High School on his sports team. A photo here and there of Harry when she was little. She was a cute child, though as she got older her features appeared more dominant. Brown hair, bright eyes and a strong look upon her features. But the older she became, the more worn she looked. They stopped after she appeared to be about thirteen. Perhaps that’s when she began to act up? 

“Sherlock?” A call from downstairs came, the man pausing as he heard John’s voice. Early. He was early. Oh hell, what was he going to do or say? What would John think of him digging through his things..? Since... When did Sherlock care what the other actually thought? That was odd. Then again, this was John. This man could be dramatic when he chose to be, especially when his boundary of personal space was invaded. “Sherlock, where are you? You’re home, your coats here.” He could hear John asking. Drat. Sherlock quickly began to fumble quickly, tossing everything back into the box and kicking it against the wall. Perhaps John wouldn’t bother looking towards it in the next few days? He’d have to re-tape it before the man noticed. Sherlock was quick to shut the door to the closet before standing quickly. And in a flurry of his dressing gown, he was sprawled out upon the doctor’s bed, a concentrating expression upon his features. He’d tell John he needed to think, but needed to think from a different point of view. And to do that, he needed to be in here. He’d told John more foolish things before. Well, foolish for the other. He wouldn’t understand much of the logic used, but it often did work. Whatever he was doing, anyway. 

That’s when he heard footsteps. John was making his way up, grumbling to himself about Sherlock most likely being with Mrs. Hudson for some reason. Of course, he paused in his door way at the sight of the man sprawled out in his bed, frowning a bit. “Sherlock, hell, what are you doing up here?” He asked, moving to kick off his shoes after wandering beside the bed to look down at Sherlock who opened his eyes. “You’re ruining my concentration.” The consulting detective grunted sounding frustrated that John had bothered speaking. 

“Yeah, well, you’re in my room.” John pointed out. Sherlock’s eyes trailed over the other’s features. He was tired. Long day. Something happened that caused him to be sent home early. Something bad. John looked upset. It may have been the guilt of rummaging through John’s things that shouldn’t have existed that prompted what Sherlock did next, but he ended up reaching out to pull John beside him into the full-sized bedding. They’d been like this a few times before. When one wasn’t feeling good or John had come home drunk in the pub. So there was no question that John was quick to voice a complaint, apparently uncomfortable. 

He had red on his cheeks, and was trying to move away. “No.” Sherlock stated quietly and shifted to lay on his side, closing his eyes and hugging John’s back to his front, an arm wrapped around the other’s torso. “Just be quiet and lay there.” He grunted. It was John who thought that something may have happened in the day, hesitating in his squirming for freedom. “Did something happen..?” He asked quietly, getting a grunt in response. “Did Sally say something to you again? Lestrade’s scolded her loads of times, she knows better.” John muttered, frowning to himself though paused as he felt the other’s fingers tighten around him. “No, why would she say something? Wait, she doesn’t talk to me often- What does she say to you that she doesn’t say to me?” He asked, bewildered. She could get nastier? 

“Right, nothing. Just- Really, what is it?” John asked, looking down to the arm that held onto him. This was odd. It wasn’t like Sherlock. Then again, the times he’d come home plastered off his arse, he didn’t really remember being cradled by Sherlock or laying with him in the night. He’d always woken up in his own bed, so he never thought anything of it. This was the first time they’d been close like this. Without a reason. And it was odd. Though honestly, he... He enjoyed the contact. It was nice after the day he’d had. A patient died on him, they’d gotten someone who was all torn up after getting attacked by some school kids and a few other bad sights. A sick baby, an elderly patient who’d broken their neck and all sorts of things. Sarah had let him come home early when she’d noticed his leg bothering him more than it should have. Yet when he came in through the door of 221B, it was better again, almost. Funny how that was. 

“Nothing. Must I repeat myself again? Lay there.” Sherlock grunted. He wasn’t going to explain that he was doing this to make John feel better. It was foolish. Rather, he felt... Silly. Almost. But this was for John’s benefit, not his own. No matter how warm he suddenly felt, or how pleasant this was. John needed the attention, not himself. It didn’t help with cases. It didn’t advance his thought. In fact, this contact clouded his mind. John was quite the distraction. 

“Right, right. Sorry.” John sighed and relaxed into Sherlock a small bit, hesitating a moment before closing his eyes and unconsciously leaning back into the man, focusing on the fingers that tightened into his skin. Oh, that was... Lovely.

They lay like that for a while, silent and with each other. John was almost dozing when his phone had begun to buzz in his pocket, frowning a bit to himself and tugging it out. He heard Sherlock let out a sound of complaint, the doctor tensing a bit at the feel of warm lips brushing against the back of his neck. Oh Christ, that was lovely. Blinking his eyes a small bit to wake himself up, he looked at the text message he’d gotten. From his sister. “Huh...” John murmured.

“What?” Sherlock asked, words still brushing against the skin of the man he was latched onto, mildly amused. He could feel John tense at the sensation, but he wasn’t trying to move away. Why was that so pleasing? 

“Harry’s coming to visit tomorrow. She wanted to grab something from when we were little. I’ve got an old box, in the closet. Haven’t opened it in years. Wonder why she wants it.” He sighed, shaking his head and glancing towards the closet.

It was Sherlock’s turn to now pause, glancing towards it as well. “I’d rather you didn’t...” He murmured quietly and rolled a bit upon the bedding, pushing John so that he were on his stomach and the he himself was half-sprawled out upon the older man as if to pin him down. 

“H-Hey! Sherlock, what’re you doing? Why not?” John asked, his cheeks flustered up again as he turned his head to glance back at the ma that returned his head to the crook of his throat, ears warming as well at the feel of lips to the sensitive skin. Dear god.

“No reason. Just... Don’t.” The younger grunted, sighing weakly.


End file.
